


Not a word, Merlin.

by LadyEmrys



Series: Whenever You Look Up [1]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Multi, The arrested!au I promised, is now a multi chpater fic, this is her fault, you can blame nickygp/kingsmanhartwin for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-03-23 10:02:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3763957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyEmrys/pseuds/LadyEmrys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Initially takes place twenty five years before Whenever You Look Up.</p><p>It started when Harry returned from Montreal a day later than planned with a fractured wrist, <i>sans Percival</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Losing Percival

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nickygp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nickygp/gifts).



_“Not a word, Merlin. Not a word.”_

It started when Harry returned from Montreal a day later than planned with a fractured wrist, _sans Percival_. He stood, stone-faced and silent on the garish paisley carpet as Arthur viciously berated him for his inattention. The older man seethed at him from the King’s seat, gesturing violently at the red mission report he grasped tightly in his hand.

_Wrong colour. There should have been two names on the cover._

He could sense the nervous eyes of the other agents seated around the table as they darted between Arthur and himself. He ignored them, and kept his gaze fixed on the empty chair across from Kay. 

_Wrong chair. Should have been his._

The skin above his right brow stung and he knew he’d need to change the dressing soon. 

_“Never take your eyes off the mark - never! Have you learnt nothing, boy?”_

Harry was finding it difficult to focus on Arthur’s words as they reverberated below the deafening screech ringing through his skull. His temples throbbed, his eyelids quivered under the pressure, and dark spots began to creep across the edges of his vision. 

He gave Arthur a jerked nod and a low, shaky bow, before concentrating all his effort on putting one heavy foot in front of the other and fleeing from the room without a word. He could just make out Arthur’s indignant sputter as the older man heaved himself from his chair in an effort to give chase.

Someone stopped him.

_Probably Bors._

He wrenched the handle of the dressing room door and threw himself against the heavy wood, forcing it open with his shoulder. He ignored their new tailor’s concerned exclamation as he staggered into the room and braced both palms against the cool glass, slumping forwards onto his knees as he felt the floor start to shake beneath him. 

The dull grind of gears and chains as he was lowered to the shuttle station gave him something - other than the shrill static noise hissing in his ears – to focus on. The rumbling din stopped all too soon and he was confronted with painfully white light reflecting off polished tile walls.

He pulled himself shakily to his feet and stumbled towards the shuttle, collapsing into the soft seat with a grunt. The door rolled to his right, clicking shut. He let his head fall back against the plush material as he sped through London and towards the mansion. The roar of the shuttle screeching along its metal tracks threw him off as he tried to calm his racing heart. 

_Too much noise. Too fast. Too deep._

All of a sudden, it stopped. The silence in the capsule was broken by his quick, rasping breaths – and then the hiss of the shuttle door rolling upwards. 

Harry’s trembling hands struggled with his belt, and he cursed at himself as he twisted and pulled the strap. He barely heard the click that sounded his release as he leapt from the seat and ran, fighting the pain in his head that threatened to pull him down. The harsh artificial lighting blurred one hallway into the next as he picked up speed, skidding along the newly tiled floor when he rounded corners and sending interns scattering in his wake.

He trusted his feet to take him where he desperately needed to go as he fought to keep his breaths even. By the time he reached the lift he was gasping for air, the dull stinging pain in his chest distracting him for a moment from the darkness that still clung to corners of his eyes. He slammed his fist into the bottom of the lift panel, praying that he’d hit the right floor. He collapsed against the back wall, drawing his arms tightly around himself and screwing his eyes shut against the onslaught of static that surged through his head once more. 

Harry didn’t hear the lift doors pinging open, nor did he hear the gasps and worried murmurs of those standing just outside.

_“Get Merlin in here - now.”_

He gripped the fabric of his trousers so tightly he was sure he would tear it, cocooning himself and drawing back from the hands that worried and fussed and petted him. He drowned out their soothing whispers, drifting further and further into the static bliss, only coming back to himself when he heard the thick, gruff brogue of an _achingly_ familiar voice.

“Right, ge’ off ‘im, ye vultures. I’m no gonna tell ye twice.”

The crowd around him drew back and his space felt clearer, allowing him to take deeper, steadier breaths. He sensed the warmth of another person as they knelt before him, bracketing him with their long arms and shielding him from the room beyond the doors.

_“Oh, Harry.”_

Without realising it, he had reached out for the other man, and he allowed himself to be pulled forward until his forehead met the coarse wool of Merlin’s favourite cardigan. He slumped into the reassuring embrace - breathing in the lingering scent of cigar smoke and oil that Merlin couldn’t get rid of, no matter how many times he washed it. He noted that it seemed stronger than usual - _tinkering again_ , he thought absently - as he permitted himself to relax for the first time in days and enjoyed the sensation of his friend’s long fingers carding through his thick, dark curls.

Merlin’s voice whispered softly somewhere in the vicinity above his left ear. “Percival was right, you suit the perm.”

Hearing the words, Harry’s breath caught in his throat - though he failed to bite back the sob that they tore from him. 

“Don’t. Percival- don’t- I-” he croaked, the word’s not quite making it past his guilt-heavy tongue. 

He was cut off by Merlin’s hand cupping the base of his skull and pressing his face closer into the other man’s chest. Merlin’s other hand wrapped around his shoulders and began rubbing wide, slow circles along the material of his suit jacket – starting at the juncture between his shoulder blades and sweeping down to the base of his spine. The measured drag of the material against his skin gave him a pace to match his breathing to, and he soon found himself inhaling as the warmth of Merlin’s strong hand brushed below his neck, exhaling when he felt it linger at the bottom of his back. 

Merlin must have pressed the button to close the lift doors, for when Harry pulled his face away from the comfort of the rough material beneath his cheek, he found them alone in the lift, cocooned in the safety of the silence. They weren’t moving, as far as he could tell, but his attention was drawn back to the man before him when he felt those same long fingers brush against his damp cheeks.

He glanced up into Merlin’s concerned hazel eyes, framed by dark lashes and a furrowed brow. One errant curl had fallen over the man’s forehead, and Harry fought back the small grin tugging at the corner of his lips as he coughed.

“You don’t.”

Merlin’s eyes drifted across his face, lingering on the red patches around his eyes and across his cheekbones as he titled his head. “I’m sorry?”

Harry shook his head and straightened, pulling himself onto his knees and smiling softly as Merlin’s arms continued to steady him. “The perm,” he gestured to the unruly mop atop Merlin’s head, “you don’t suit it.” 

Merlin’s face split into a wide grin as he pulled Harry towards him again. “Cheeky bastard,” he huffed. Harry breathed a shaky laugh and pressed his nose against the warmth of the other man’s neck, delighting as he felt Merlin’s snort of laughter leave his throat. 

They sat hunched together in silence for what felt like an age, before Harry pulled back again and gripped Merlin’s forearms. He nodded and allowed himself to be hoisted to his feet, grateful that Merlin stayed close to him until he was sure Harry could support himself.

It started when Harry returned from Montreal with a fractured wrist, _sans Percival_. 

_It proceeded in a bar, one hour later._


	2. Drowning sorrows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry grinned wolfishly as he glanced back over his shoulder at Merlin. 
> 
> “Ten quid says I can break inna tha’ car wi’out those.” He gestured at the forgotten tools.
> 
> Merlin’s lips pulled back into a wicked smirk. 
> 
>  
> 
> _“Yer on.”_

Harry choked against the burn in his throat as he threw his head back and downed another shot of...something that Merlin had given him. He figured that enough alcohol would eventually dull the throbbing pain he felt at the base of his skull.

The chorus of cheering that erupted from the table next to them was greeted with a grin at first, but the more alcohol Harry imbibed, the more irresistible the urge to tell the men to ‘ _Fuck Off_ ,’ became. He gave a sloppy wave of acknowledgement in what he assumed was their direction and reached a shaky hand out to grasp the pint glass in front of him. 

_He only missed once._

His hand’s gripped the surface tightly as he guided the glass to his lips, grateful for the cool bitter liquid that soothed his aching throat. He pulled back and carefully considered the beads of water that had gathered, glistening in the hazy light of the bar. 

He barely registered Merlin leaving his side and stumbling his way over to lean against a polished wooden counter, eyeing the patron on the stool beside him with a suspicious glint. The older man’s watery eyes were fixed on the unruly mop that sat atop Merlin’s head, and the wrinkled face twisted into a teasing smirk as Merlin tutted impatiently.

Harry had long since given up on the act of staggering to the bar himself, and had instead been thrusting fistfuls of notes at Merlin and slurring out the names of things he wasn’t quite sure were actual drinks. 

He took whatever was given in return, and narrowed his eyes as Merlin drunkenly failed to subtly slip the money he was given back into Harry’s jacket. 

As Harry waited patiently for Merlin to return with another round, he struggled to focus his bleary eyes on the little rings of liquid the previous rounds had left on the table. To the right of his own glass, a scattering of salt and crumbs – all that was left of the three packets of peanuts that Harry had choked down as soon as they had taken their seats. 

He slowly traced the pad of his forefinger through the rings, spiralling them outward and staring – mesmerised – as the tendrils stretched into rivers, connecting each ring to the next. Satisfied with his effort, he scraped the crumbs into a small pile in the centre of the table.

_‘A place for everything and everything in its place.’_

He frowned.

_Where had he heard that before?_

The thick, smoky fog that filled the bar was one of the reasons he’d always favoured the place. He himself had sworn off tobacco years ago, but sitting in his favourite corner allowed him to breathe in the heady scent of tobacco with only a fraction of the guilt. The smell clung to every battered leather chair and stool, the wallpaper was stained with it, and the windows – though impeccably clean on the outside – never stayed clear for long. 

The patrons were as thick and smoky as the air itself. Former service-men, Jacks of all trades, men who had nowhere else to go and no one to go home to. Men who didn’t seem to belong anywhere but slumped against the brick fireplace, pipes that weren’t smoking clutched between their yellowed teeth. Peaked caps lay forgotten on the tables as their perches beaded with sweat, pints abandoned in favour of hands of cards.

The only man in sight wearing a suit smiled fondly in greeting as a shrivelled figure passed his table, the little white terrier following him obediently to a vacant chair near the fire. Harry beckoned the only waitress over, pressing a twenty-pound note firmly against her hand – as was his custom - and nodding at the man struggling to lower himself into his seat – waving off any help offered, as was _his_ custom. 

She patted his shoulder gently and made her way back to the bar, handing the money to her father and moving into the back to fetch the bowl of stew and the pot of tea she always kept warm in the kitchen. The twenty would refill both at least three times, as well as provide a much-welcomed pint at the end of the night.

Harry knew it would have been offered even if he hadn’t been paying for it all these years, just as he knew that for the last three years the landlord had collected the rent early out of spite, and that the pretty blonde girl with the reassuring smile was saving everything she could to get herself that little red car from the dealer on the corner. 

_Not that expensive a car, would only take him a month to get the money._

He smiled to himself at the thought as Merlin dropped down into the seat beside him. He held out another bag of overly-salted peanuts – which Harry declined with a shake of his head – and then scoffed the lot. He drained half his glass in an effort to wash them down.

At some point during Harry’s musings, Merlin had started watching him from the bar. His friend had begun distractedly fiddling with peanut crumbs and rings of condensation and liquor, and Merlin knew it was time to address the problem at hand. 

He took a large gulp of cheap beer, wincing at the foul taste and cursing the fact that Harry had insisted they come to this particular bar instead of somewhere nicer. 

“It’ll ge’ easier, bu’ is no somethin’ ye ever ge’ used te.” 

Harry glanced up with a defeated sigh, hearing the resolute tone of the other man’s voice and realising he couldn’t avoid the subject. He shook his head and choked back another swill of beer. 

“S’all my fault. Looked away an’ missed the gun.”

Merlin brow drew together in a pained frown. “S’no yer fault, ‘Arry, yer ‘andler should’a been watchin’ too.”

“He wasn’ there though, s’all me. S’all my fault.”

Merlin squinted through the swirling haze of tobacco at Harry’s downturned lips and furrowed brow for a few more minutes before making his decision.

_Right. Come on._

“Righ’, ‘mon.”

Harry frowned up at his friend as he was pulled to his feet and steered towards the door. He called back a hasty farewell over his shoulder to those around him, receiving an earnest _‘G’bye’_ from all and a drunken flail of arms from some. 

His shoulders were clasped again and again by hands eager to wish him luck, and even though they pulled him back from Merlin and into shaky arms, he found himself returning the embraces with gusto. 

The rough woollen cardigans and damp overcoats pressed against his cheek as he was offered a thousand words of comfort - uttered in accents made even thicker with drink.

By the time Merlin had grasped his hand and forced him through the open door the whole room was on their feet, waving him off and issuing half-hearted threats should he not return soon.

The heavy black door swung closed behind them, sealing the strange little world in a cloud of tobacco smoke and ale, steadfastly shielding those inside from the cold, dark night.

Rather than the bite of the winter wind as it whistled down the low tunnel of the entryway, it was the sudden silence that made Harry shudder. 

_He longed to retreat back into his favourite corner by the fire._

Merlin threw an arm around his shoulder, partly to steer him in the desired direction and partly to steady himself. 

The two men staggered along the cobbled path to the mouth of the tunnel and into the street. The city was only starting to come alive with the sights and sounds of the night, and Harry was struck with how early it was yet. 

As they made their way down the wide pathway speckled with the yellow glow of the streetlights and shop fronts Harry found himself harbouring an irrational hatred for the clueless civilians that darted in and out of taxis and hurried along the concrete beside them – giving the two obviously drunk men a wide berth.

He forced his mind not to dally into dangerous territory, and focused instead on keeping his feet as straight as he could with Merlin leaning so heavily on him. They turned the corner that would lead them to the mouth of Harry’s street, and came face to face with three lanky young men trying to break into a Ford Cortina. 

Instinct took hold as Harry and Merlin straightened to their full height, pulling back their shoulders and planting their feet firmly against the hard ground as the three turned to them with terrified expressions pulling at their faces. 

Fortunately, the threat of the two men seemed to be enough to deter the teens, for as soon as Harry had taken a predatory step in their direction, the three dropped the tools they’d been trying to force through the car’s lock and raced off towards the other side of the street. They disappeared round the corner at the end of the road and Harry allowed himself to relax.

He glanced back at Merlin, catching the grin beginning to form on the other man’s lips and turned back to face the car. An idea suddenly occurred to him. A stupid, terrible, drunk idea.

_Never waste an opportunity to practice one’s skills._

Harry Hart was undoubtedly the most light-fingered agent that had ever strutted along the corridors of the Kingsman mansion. It was a well-known fact that Galahad could break into anything he was presented with, be it house or lockbox, without anyone catching so much as a glimpse of him. He routinely…borrowed trinkets and watches and bits and bobs from the other agents, just to amuse himself.

He never stole them, they were always returned within a few days of being taken, good as new - though not before the owner had nearly driven themselves mad trying to find their lost possessions. 

_Harry delighted in seeing the looks on their faces when watches turned up in pockets and rings under piles of paperwork._

Harry grinned wolfishly as he glanced back over his shoulder at Merlin. 

“Ten quid says I can break inna tha’ car wi’out those.” He gestured at the forgotten tools.

Merlin’s lips pulled back into a wicked smirk. 

_“Yer on.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thank you to everyone who has come to join me on my new sideblog (dedicated to this AU) trashbagauthor. If you haven't already then head on over if you feel like ranting or headcanoning about this or any other fic, you'll be very welcome indeed.


	3. A straight razor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I want to shave that._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> “I want to shave that.”
> 
> “Eh?”
> 
> “You’re hair. I think we should shave it.”

_This was a bad idea._

The car swerved right suddenly. Merlin shot forward and braced himself against the dashboard – trying his best to remain upright. His hands gripped the edge of his seat as he was thrown back with the force of Harry accelerating, turning onto an avenue that ran beside the park.

_This was a fucking terrible idea._

The roar of the engine and screech of tyres drowned out the yowl of the cat they almost hit, as it scurried back through the hedge and to the safety of the dark playground.

_This is why I don’ let ‘im drive._

Breathing heavily, he glanced sharply at the man behind the wheel – a plea for his friend to _slow the fuck down_ catching on the tip of his tongue - and marvelled at the joy he saw brightening his face.

Harry had never felt so free.

_This was it. This was what he needed._

The car hurtled through dark streets as its driver relished in the weightless feeling. His throat burned with the aftertaste of alcohol and hoarse laughter, his lungs ached each time he drew breath, and the base of his spine collided painfully with the seat whenever he struck a speedbump.

_This was it._

His wild, infectious laughter brought a begrudging smile to Merlin’s face, and the man was helpless to prevent himself laughing right along with him.

Until they soared over another speedbump and Merlin yelped, his head colliding painfully with the low roof of the car.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, ye _tryin’_ a kill us?”

Harry would later insist that he only took his eyes off the road for a _fraction_ of a second in order to quip a witty retort, but as he turned to face his passenger, he saw the colour drain from his face, his eyes bulging. A second later, Merlin lunged for the steering wheel.

Alarmed, Harry flinched back and tried to grab it first, only to glance up over the wheel to see that they were headed straight for a rather thick, black bollard at the end of the residential estate.

The painted metal column winked in the bright flash of headlights.

In a panic, he tore Merlin’s hands from the wheel, wrenched the handbrake upwards with a painful-sounding crank, and threw the wheel as far right as it would go.

The vehicle groaned at it spun.

Merlin frantically grasped at his seat belt, bringing his legs as close to his torso as he got get them, and braced himself for the painful impact.

The car slammed into the bollard…boot first.

The rear bumper crumpled under the force of the impact, as the entire metal frame of the rear-end buckling into the back-seat. The rear windscreen shattered, spilling glass onto the backs of their seats. Merlin felt the shards scatter themselves across the back of his cardigan, as he was thrown forwards in his seat and almost choked by his belt.

The violent jolt shot Harry into the steering wheel, which was now pressed tightly against his chest. He tried an experimental wiggle and sent a silent prayer of thanks that he wasn’t being crushed.

Harry glanced to the side, realising a breath in relief at seeing his startled – but otherwise, uninjured – companion. They shared a heavy look and a sober nod, and simultaneously began extracting themselves from the wreckage.

Harry shuffled his way out of the gap between the wheel and his seat, grateful that his door still opened. The brunt of the damage had been taken by the passenger side, and so Merlin was left to scowl and he furiously rolled down his window to escape.

He clambered through the door and stood - baffled by their luck – admiring the amount of damage Harry had inflicted on the car. He gave a low whistle and turned to Harry with an expression of faux impress and an exaggerated nod.

“Well fuckin’ done.”

Harry frowned and tutted. “Shut up, we’re alive aren’t we?”

Merlin scowled as he brushed the shards of glass from his clothes. “Aye,” he began, tone dripping with sarcasm, “fancy tha’. Now all we ‘ave to do is return the car and thank its owners fer such an _excitin’_ evenin’.”

Harry raked his fingers through his unruly hair and huffed.

_The fuck are supposed to do now?_

He was about to suggest they make their way back up the street when Harry’s sensitive ears picked up on a peculiar wailing sound that seemed to be coming closer.

_That sounds like a siren._

He peered at Merlin – who likewise had his head tilted to the side, listening to the strange noise – and shrugged, pausing to listen again.

_That really does sound like a siren._

It took a moment longer for the realisation to penetrate his drunken mind. The sound was definitely approaching them, a high-pitched cry that drilled through his aching skull.

_Shit._

“Siren!” He cried, as he jumped forward and latched his hand around Merlin’s wrist. He took off towards a low garden wall, pulling the stumbling older man along behind him. They reached the brick and Harry began to heave himself over the top, only to be stopped short by Merlin’s hand on his ankle.

“Jus’ what the fuck d’ye think you’re doin’?”

Harry blinked. “Escapin’ – won’ expect us to go over the walls now, will they?”

Merlin nodded sagely, “Good plan,” and followed a beaming Harry up and over the garden wall. They bundled their way through rose bushes and hedges, over fences and sheds, dodging angry dogs as they went - one of whom made off with a large chunk of Merlin’s trouser leg, to the man’s exasperated cry of _“I fuckin’ hate dogs ‘Arry!_ ”

They emerged on the other side of the estate, very pleased with themselves that they hadn’t left a trace behind – besides the ruined flower beds, muddy footprints and snarls of a dozen angry dogs.

With another gleeful cry, Harry dragged Merlin across an empty road to the side of a supermarket – the first in a long row of buildings that sat stacked against each other.

“Now wha’ are we doin’?” whined Merlin.

Harry’s toothy grin gave him a queasy feeling in his stomach.

“We’re escapin’ in style.”

Without another word of explanation, Harry hauled himself onto the industrial-sized bin at the side of the building and leaped up to catch the edge of a window, before swinging his entire body upwards and releasing his hold on the concrete sill. He landed atop the low roof, and waved down at Merlin, gesturing for him to hurry.

Merlin grabbed hold of the bin lid and forced himself up, muttering under his breath. “Bastard dunnae realise no’ everyone can do tha’.”

It took longer for Merlin to clamber into a standing position on the window sill, but Harry graciously extended a hand and hauled him up onto the roof after the man’s third failed attempt at jumping the distance.

The two men clumsily navigated along the rooftops and window ledges of London’s sleepy streets – with few near-fatal miscalculations - until they came to the junction at the traffic lights that signalled the end of Harry’s road.

The younger man lowered himself from the roof of the corner house, dropping into a crouch as he hit the ground. Behind him came the muffled huff of an exhausted Merlin, as the older man shimmed his way down a drainpipe and into the street below. The second his feet touched the solid concrete, Merlin turned his slightly greenish face away from Harry and promptly vomited into someone’s obviously prized petunias.

Harry tried to comfort him, but was waved away with an impatient hand. He busied himself by peering around the corner for any signs of law enforcement –they’d left the sirens far behind – and concentrated on blocking out the sounds coming from behind him – his own stomach rolling dangerously in response to Merlin’s retching. When the older man was finished, he wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his cardigan and thumped Harry’s back.

They staggered across the road – the thrill of escape having worn off, leaving them with the reminder of just how drunk they actually were – and along the path to the entrance of Harry’s cul-de-sac.

Harry fumbled with the keys in his lock, ignoring Merlin’s incessant tugging on his sleeve.

“’Arry.”

“Stop it, just give –“

“No. ‘Arry, someone’s watchin’ us.”

Harry stiffened and shot a wary glance over his shoulder, sighing with relief at finding a bewildered cat pacing just behind them.

The little creature gave a curious mewl, and was shushed by a frantic Merlin.

“Ack - sshhhh – ye’ll wake the neighbours!” He hissed.

Harry snorted and shouldered his stiff door open, dragging the other man inside with a grunt. “There are no neighbours,” he muttered.

The warmth of the hallway was a welcome relief after their cold journey home. Harry toed his shoes off, scattering his suit jacket, tie and cufflinks across the hall floor as he made his way to the kitchen and fished out two, tall glasses and a bottle of wine.

He held the enticing offering out to Merlin, delighted when the man shrugged and filled both glasses.

They sat at either end of his newly acquired sofa – acquired being the operative term, given that their soft, leather perch was his trophy after the particularly savage take-down of an international drug cartel. Just as the rather fetching rug was _acquired_ from the hands of a vicious serial killer, and the contents of his crystal cabinet was seized from a powerful, Middle-Eastern gang leader.

Merlin once laughed at his _‘ridiculous_ ’ practice of pinning newspaper headlines to the walls of his study, scoffing that Harry should’ve found another way to remember his adventures, all the while oblivious to his Harry's hoarding antique chairs and glass trinkets. Merlin indulged in the collection of enemy firearms. Gawaine took up the similar – if not, morbid – hobby of collecting the various bullets that the Kingsman doctors extracted from his body following his more _hairy_ missions. As far as Harry was aware, the deceptively jolly man kept them in a jar on his desk.

Harry wondered how Merlin would react to find that the sofa he was sitting on was stolen property, or that the glass he was drinking from had once belonged to the owner of London’s most sinister brothel, or that the desk in Harry’s office had been the site of rather gruesome murder.

Harry wasn’t sure who it was that filed the evidence inventories – who had no obvious objections to his pilfering - or if indeed they’d even noticed anything was missing in the first place.

He’d have a word with Bors – the beefy man was known to have creatively accumulated an extensive collection of antique books through some nefarious practices that Harry was rather jealous of – if any of his interns knew who was responsible.

Instead, Harry smiled privately as Merlin sank into the stolen – _much deserved, after that leg wound_ – leather and raised a toast in his direction.

His eyes fixed on the strange arrangement of curls on Merlin’s head, and he worried his lip between his teeth as a rather unusual thought drifted across his inebriated mind.

_I want to shave that._

“I want to shave that.”

Merlin blinked – clearing his suddenly bleary eyes – and frowned at Harry. “Eh?”

“You’re hair,” admitted the younger man, marginally alarmed that he'd spoken the words aloud - but determined to follow through nonetheless, “I think we should shave it.”

Another slow, confused blink. “Shave it.”

Harry nodded with certainty. “Yeah, you’d look good – cheekbones an’ all.”

“Cheekbones.” Merlin glanced at the empty glass in Harry’s hand, his eyebrows climbing into forehead.

Harry sighed a frustrated huff and set his glass carefully down onto the floor, only to knock if over with his foot seconds later. He glared at the offending object before turning back to his wary companion. “You gonna let me shave you or not?”

He could see Merlin’s mind turning over the thought, his lips pursed and his brows furrowed. After a moment he brought the rim of his wine glass to his lips and drained the rest of the liquid. He grinned.

“Aye, why no’.”

Harry slapped him on the shoulder and hurried off upstairs to find his shaving kit, leaving the older man below to wonder what on earth they were doing.

Harry began shifting through the contents of his bathroom cabinets, throwing towels and toothbrushes and bottles of this and that every-which-way, until he threw his hands up in frustration and declared that he couldn’t find his razor.

_He supposed the alcohol wasn’t helping his ability to focus._

“A place fer everythin’ an’ everythin’ in its place, ‘Arry.”

He turned to see Merlin standing – well, leaning heavily – against the doorframe with a grin, an ornate wooden box held aloft.

_Ah._

“Where’d you find it?”

Merlin shrugged, offering the box to Harry. “Bedroom.”

Harry snatched the box from Merlin’s hands and on unsteady legs, picked his way down the stairs, bracing himself on the curve of the wall. Merlin followed obediently and soon the older man was seated on a barstool – a full glass of wine in hand - in the kitchen, while the younger deliberated behind him.

_How does one shave an entire head?_

He grasped Merlin’s head in his hands and turned it this way and that, before deciding that scissors would be helpful. It took another ten minutes of his rooting through drawers until Merlin plucked them from a utensils pot with a raised brow and a teasing smile.

Harry took up his position and – without giving the older man a second more to change his mind – raised his scissors aloft.

He snipped. A lock of obscenely curly hair fell to the floor.

Harry grinned.

_This’ll be fun._

Half an hour later Harry was satisfied that he’d snipped and chopped and hacked enough hair from his friend’s head that he would now be able to use the razor.

_However, trying to remember the correct procedure for a proper shave was considerably more difficult while one was…profoundly hammered._

Harry threw what he supposed would be a hot enough towel across Merlin’s head, the excess water cascading down in rivulets to dampen the front of his cardigan.

The startled man held his glass out from him and squawked beneath the dripping towel.

“S’posed to be damp, ‘Arry, no’ fuckin’ sodden’.”

Harry shushed him with a swat to his shoulder and examined the brush he’d left softening in the hot water. Drying it off, he worked up a slightly _runny_ lather – it would be fine - and whipped the towel from Merlin’s head, denying the man any time to adjust before he dumped the foamy mess on top of his skull.

_He rather enjoyed painting the man’s head with soap._

Once Harry was content with his efforts he left his friend to drip, while he went and refilled his own glass.

Merlin would later admit that he was only ever so slightly unnerved by the image of Harry approaching him with a straight razor, but he soon relaxed into the firm grip of Harry’s hands as the man titled his head back and began to run the blade over the curve of his head in long, slow strokes.

The process was repeated twice before Harry stepped back, immensely proud of his efforts, and retrieved a small mirror for Merlin.

_What his initial reaction was he’ll never remember, but in his later years Merlin had to admit that Harry was right. He rather suited being bald._

The two men spent the rest of the evening at either ends of the red chesterfield, perfectly content with silence until, one after the other, they drifted off to sleep.

Harry was awoken what felt like only minutes later, when a large man in an impeccably clean suit kicked his foot.

He leapt from the sofa – upending the now bald man whose legs had been sprawled across him – and prepared to strike his attacker, only to relax when he saw Gawaine struggling to restrain a smile. Harry allowed himself to be lowered back into his seat – apologising to the startled Merlin who was left to crawl from the floor – and thanked Gawaine for the offering of paracetamol and water. Merlin accepted the same with a grunt, and threw back the tablets.

His head came to rest against the cool leather sofa, and his eyes widened. He turned to look at Harry – flushed with guilt – and Gawaine – openly chortling without restraint – and slowly dragged himself across the room to the mirror that lay forgotten on one of the chairs.

He was barely given a chance to inspect the stranger staring back at him, when Gawaine informed them that Arthur was most eager to speak with them.

Harry and Merlin shared a defeated look, and shuffled upstairs to at least try and freshen themselves up before their execution.

Years later they would remember it with uncontrollable peals of laughter - hunched over and gasping - and tears in their eyes, but walking out of Arthur’s office – after having received the second-most vicious scolding the man had ever given him – Harry couldn’t be sure that there was ever going to be that much to laugh about.

However, closing the doors behind him and turning to face Merlin, the low morning light reflecting off of his shiny, bald head, Harry could help but marvel at Merlin’s quiet smile as he stood, ready to face his fate unflinching.

The bald man grinned as Harry passed him, and titled his head as if preparing to speak. Harry cut him off with a pointed finger - barely able to smother his own, woefully inappropriate laughter.

“Not a word, Merlin. Not a word.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, as some of you may know I've not been active for a while. I'm still stressed out about stuff and I'm still trying to gather up enough money for a new laptop so I actually can write, instead of borrowing my sisters whenever she can spare it - preparing her UCAS form is taking up a lot of her time. So if you can donate, anything at all would be very very welcome, then head on over to trashbagauthor on tumblr and you'll find a post with all the infor you need. I'm currently offering fics in exchange for donations! Thanks for reading and thanks for listening :)


	4. Tradition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin shot a lost look at Harry. “I don’t think Little Miss would enjoy any of our stories, Uncle Harry,” he warned.
> 
> Harry grinned, his voice taking on a melodramatically innocent tone. “Of course she would. She loves all sorts of stories, _especially_ those concerning heroes and thieves and fast chases and daring escapes and lots and _lots_ of sirens.”

Merlin was roused from his inspection of Bors’ tablet by a sharp chirping sound coming from underneath a pile of expenditure request forms – his neck protesting with a painful twinge as he turned his head to locate the source of the disturbance.

Gingerly, he rolled his shoulders back and titled his stomach forwards, straightening his spine and wincing at the pop that came from somewhere in his lower back. As he fished for his trilling watch underneath a mountain of paper he resolved to file an expenditure request of his own.

_Do everything for him, least he can give me is a better chair._

He found the watch at last, and silenced it with a grunt.

_Ten. He was supposed to be at Harry’s in an hour._

He knew the reason Harry insisted scheduling their meeting for such an inconvenient hour - the younger man was convinced that he was doing Merlin the world of good if he could convince him to sign off early for one night a month.

With a resigned sigh Merlin abandoned Bors’ tablet – jotting a quick note to remind himself that he really needed to talk with the Knight about how incompatible the expensive device was with his office wall – and swept his paperwork into his laptop bag.

He whistled tunelessly as he locked his office door, glancing quickly around through the glass to see if he’d left anything behind. Satisfied that he wasn’t forgetting anything important, the man turned on his heel and descended the stairs to the Handler’s floor below.

In the aftermath of V-Day it became Kingsman’s – _Merlin’s_ \- policy to never have too many missions running overnight – objectives were completed in the daylight hours and then agents were placed on lockdown until the next sunrise.

The Handler’s floor was relatively empty at night compared to the bustling chaos of the daylight shift. Only two lights were switched on overhead, the rest of the room darker than he was accustomed to. Three booths were occupied by Handlers whispering softly into microphones, stooped low over their desks while scribbling furiously on coarse, standard issue paper. Notes were passed over booth walls and to the centre of the room, where the interactive map seemed blessedly quiet.

Seven agents in the field, the rest on diplomatic relief – handling the tetchy international stage and facilitating agreements between the surviving politicians – save for three of their best, who were stationed on the other side of the Atlantic.

According to Percival, Lancelot and Galahad were fitting in perfectly – although the man did mention he’d had his suspicions about Eagle. Merlin couldn’t fathom why, but nevertheless he swore that he would follow up on Percival’s concerns – after all, his little birds flitted everywhere.

He bade goodnight to the exhausted stragglers as they shuffled from booth to map and back again – half-heartedly returning his farewell with grunts and lazy waves in his direction.

In the far corner of the room, Sparrow fell forwards as the lift doors pinged open – his head slipping from his hand as he was jerked back into the land of the living. He caught himself just before he head-butted the desk, and peered with bleary eyes about the room. His gaze found Merlin, and his eyes narrowed at the amusement he saw lighting the other man’s face.

Merlin’s lips quirked into a kind smile as the lift doors began to close, and he resolved to amend the shift schedule again.

_He might not want to be at home, but if he keeps this up it’ll be the end of ‘im..._

“Goodnight, Sparrow,” he called softly.

He caught the man’s hoarse reply just as the doors snapped shut.

“Yeah, yeah – g‘night.”

Merlin wandered through the lower halls of HQ, smiling at the over-worked interns who were alert enough to wish him goodnight, and stepping out of the way – so as not to be trampled - for those who were too exhausted to register his presence.

As he opened the door to the shuttle dock, the fluorescent lights above flickered before turning on, and he added the problem to his seemingly endless mental list.

_Need to get that seen to as well._

He glanced to the right – through the large pane of glass separating the dock from the Kingsman hanger – and watched a solitary figure drifting among the vehicles, occasionally glancing at the clipboard grasped in their hands. They’d make a mark on their list for every empty spot.

He settled back into the shuttle seats, his head dropping to rest against the soft fabric, and closed his eyes. Listening for the quiet hiss of the shuttle door, he fell asleep to the rumble of machinery beneath his feet.

Merlin was woken minutes - an hour and a half – later by the sound of David rapping against the shuttle door. He blinked to clear the sleep from his eyes and smiled tiredly at the concerned man, who offered a hand as he slowly rose from his seat. He accepted it gratefully.

“Everything all right, Sir?”

Merlin waved him off with a ‘ _hmpf_ ’ and a pat on the shoulder. “Everything’s fine, just a little tired, that’s all.”

David turned his quiet smile to the other man, as the two entered the elevator and ascended to the shop.

“We’re all a little tired, Sir.”

Merlin snorted and returned the easy grin before frowning and following the tailor through the door of Dressing Room One and out onto the dimly lit shop floor. The reams of fabric had been unfolded, then refolded and rearranged. The mannequins had been dressed for dinner. Every inch of mahogany had been furiously polished and then polished again, and the rich, dark wood gleamed in the low light of the spotless green lamps.

The place was cleaner than Merlin had ever seen it.

“What are you still doing here, David?”

The other man stepped over to the front desk and retrieved his keys. “I’ve been doing a bit of redecorating, Sir – so much as I am able, at least. There isn’t, understandably, much business to be had these days.”

Merlin nodded somberly and ran his gaze along the bulging shelves of stock that simply wasn’t shifting.

His eyes narrowed at the clock on the wall.

_Eleven forty-eight._

“This can’t have taken you all day.”

The tailor’s grin turned sheepish as he gestured to the monitor hidden under the front desk. “I saw someone coming from HQ, and since so few people actually use the shuttle I knew it was you, and well I –”

“You thought you’d wait for me,” Merlin finished.

The other man’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he gave a small nod. “I like to see everyone safely out,” he admitted warmly.

Merlin stepped forward and placed both hands on the smaller man shoulders, squeezing gently.

“Thank you, David.”

The Magician stood back on the street – against one of the ornate black lampposts, admiring the display in the golden light of the windows – and waited for the tailor to lock the doors – and, of course, key in the private emergency code that would alert HQ, Harry, Merlin, and Gawaine of any attempted break-ins.

The two men bid each other farewell and headed in opposite directions – David, home to his partner, and Merlin, off to Harry’s. He’d waved off the offer of a taxi, sure that he’d rather walk the distance than be stuck for another hour in traffic.

The cool air nipped at his ears and nose and he reached up to pull his collar tighter around his throat as he marched briskly to the junction at the end of Harry’s road. A glance to the left and he grinned at the sight of the drainpipe coming slightly away from the gable wall of the house on the corner, the only evidence – save for the ruined gardens and mangled husk of the Ford – of their not so secret adventure.

Harry’s door was off the latch when Merlin pushed it open, and he breathed a sigh of relief to be welcomed into the warm hallway. He shucked his coat and draped it over the end of the banister, looping the strap of his laptop bag on top, and turned in the direction of the kitchen, where he could hear Harry’s quiet shuffling.

Two glasses of wine sat atop the kitchen island, along with a shaving kit and a mound of fresh towels. Harry stood by the sink, whisking something in a bowl, and as Merlin cleared his throat, he turned to accuse him.

“You’re late.”

Merlin grinned. “And yet you’re only now working up a lather?”

Harry pointed to the tablet perching on the pile of towels. “David kindly informed me that you’d only just made it to the shuttle at ten-fifteen.”

He placed the bowl on the island in front of him and crossed the kitchen with the two glasses in hand. As Merlin accepted his he found himself being steered over to a high stool. Harry pressed his hands down on the other man’s shoulders, and Merlin smiled as he took his seat.

A delicious smelling paper bag was thrust into his waiting hands, along with a fork.

“Where’s the wee one?”

Harry had resumed his furious whisking, but paused to tilt his head towards the living room.

“Listen.”

Merlin did, and could clearly hear music coming from the other room. He frowned over his shoulder at Harry. “Shouldn’t she be in bed?”

Harry shook his head as he worked the stiff lather between the soft bristles. “She’s been napping all day,” he began, inspecting the contents of the bowl with a critical eye. “The poor dear’s just gotten over a nasty cold.”

Merlin swallowed a mouthful of noodles. “Well then shouldn’t she be in here with us?”

The other man stared incredulously at his friend. “You try taking her away from her cartoons.”

Harry would often boast that Sophie was an uncommonly easy child to supervise. She was placid and quiet and patient if Harry was busy with work, and was content to sit on a beanbag in his office with a stack of paper and a packet of jumbo crayons.

When Harry finished and stood, Sophie scrambled to extract herself from the cushy folds of her seat and held her arms out to him, eager to be carried to his next destination.

Harry would work himself to death in the evenings to make time to play with her the next day – always a game of her choosing – and the darling child delighted in bossing the older man around as he hunched over her tiny play-table, scolding him for pouring imaginary tea too vigorously or putting imaginary sugar in the wrong cup.

She never complained when it was time to end the game, she simply stretched out her little arms and settled herself against Harry’s chest. She hardly ever complained at all.

Unless, of course, she was absorbed in the brightly-coloured, swirling patterns and chipper voices coming from the television and someone decided it was time for her to move. She would fuss uncontrollably until she was placed back on her cushion in her pen. If her sudden upheaval was necessary she could be placated with promises of recordings being available later, and she would sit, mesmerised, as she diligently caught up on her animated friends’ adventures.

Harry peered around the doorframe and smiled at the little girl swaying in time to a song about acceptance and diversity that appeared to be coming from a talking cow.

“She’s missed three episodes and she’ll not be contented until she’s up to speed. She doesn’t like being out of the loop.”

Merlin flashed a wicked grin and winked at Harry. “She’d make a good spy.”

The other man forced a shudder and grimaced. “Dear God - don’t joke. What a ghastly thought.”

“It’s not so bad, Harry.”

At Harry’s pointed look, he laughed, “Alright it’s terrible - but, _come on_ – we’ve been at it for so long I don’t think we could do anything else.”

Harry hummed his agreement, brow furrowed, and retrieved the hot cloth that had been soaking in water.

“Well you’re right about that, now hold still – I don’t want to cut you.”

Merlin titled his head back and relaxed into the firm grip of Harry’s hands, trusting his own to deliver forkfuls of noodles and chicken safely into his mouth. He drew great comfort from the familiarity of their decades-old ritual.

It had taken him a while to grow accustomed to his reflection, but he soon found he rather liked being bald. He maintained that it enhanced his _distinguished_ image, and was much easier to manage that the terrible perm had been. He pointedly ignored Harry’s insisting that it was only because it made him look more threatening to the Handlers and new recruits.

_The formidable impression he gave was merely a bonus – definitely not the reason._

He normally employed a highly reputable – and extortionately expensive - barber to carry out the maintenance, but once a month he and Harry would indulge themselves in a little nostalgia, and Harry would produce the shaving kit he kept aside for that very purpose.

Merlin would arrive in the evening and Harry would feed him terribly unhealthy fast food – tonight the offerings were from his favourite Chinese takeaway – and they would drink the same cheap wine they had that first night – he’d only later learned that harry had held out on the good stuff. Harry would take a good hour until he was satisfied with his efforts, and then they would retire to the living room where they would spend the rest of the evening laughing themselves hoarse.

Merlin pierced another slice of chicken with his fork, balancing the bag on his knee, and waited until Harry had finished his stroke before turning.

“Knives?”

Harry shook his head. “All dirty.”

His eyes narrowed at Merlin’s sceptical expression, and he dropped the hand holding the foamy razor to rest on his hip. “Eggsy isn’t here and Michelle’s been busy with the new house and I’ve had Sophie with me all day and I can’t very well –”

His impending tirade was cut short by Merlin raising his hands in placation. “Fingers, fingers – look, I don’t need a knife.” He hastily resumed his dinner, tearing pieces of chicken apart with his hands and trying to hide a smile as he listened to Harry fussing behind him.

They finished without injury, and Harry dismissed Merlin’s attempts to clean up the mess left behind, instead ushering him into the living room. The television was nothing but a blue screen with a white message informing them that Sophie’s programme had ended, and the little girl sat patiently - staring at Merlin with wide eyes – as Harry moved across the room to turn it off.

Merlin nodded at the curious child. “Looks like Little Miss isn’t quite ready for bed yet.”

“No, I don’t think so either,” agreed Harry, as he plucked the child from her playpen and deposited her in a startled Merlin’s arms. He then threw himself back into a chair on the other side of the room and smirked. “Maybe she’d like to hear a story.”

He cooed at the little girl. “Wouldn’t that be lovely sweetheart? Wouldn’t you like Uncle Merlin to tell you a story?”

The child in Merlin’s lap giggled and nodded excitedly, fisting her hands in his jumper and wriggling into his side. His arms accepted the familiar weight of a child with ease, but Merlin shot a lost look at Harry. “I don’t think Little Miss would enjoy any of our stories, Uncle Harry,” he warned.

Harry grinned, his voice taking on a melodramatically innocent tone. “Of course she would. She loves all sorts of stories, _especially_ those concerning heroes and thieves and police chases and daring escapes and lots and _lots_ of sirens.”

Merlin caught the wicked gleam in Harry’s eye and the corner of his upper lip twitched as he inquired in a theatrical whisper, “And what if the heroes were the thieves?”

Harry settled back into the chair, fighting to restrain his laughter, and raised his glass.

“Well now, that makes it all the more interesting, doesn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for this fic, I hope you've enjoyed it!


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